


Anaconda

by jellybeanforest



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Dark Comedy, F/M, Gen, GotG Kinkmeme Prompt, Intergalactic Dick Size, Mentions of Pedophilia, Protective Yondu Udonta, Size is Relative, Slight Canon Divergence, Starmora, Yondad, crackfic, no actual underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-01 01:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: Peter is living large.Based on a LJ GotG Kinkmeme Prompt – Of all the humanoid species in the galaxy, Terrans are notable for one thing: the absurdly large size of their genitals.





	1. Peter's Third Leg

**Author's Note:**

> Among the primate family, testicle size relative to body size correlates with female promiscuity. The idea is that in a world where female primates are having sex with multiple males, it’s more evolutionarily advantageous to flood her with more sperm to increase the male's chances of having children. Larger testes produce more sperm. Due to their harem-style mating system, the gorilla has the smallest testicles. Bonobos (who are extremely horny) have the largest. Humans are middling. However, one of the weird things about human genitalia is their relatively large penises. What I’m trying to say is that when I saw this prompt, I knew I had to write it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yondu abducts li’l Quill and quickly discovers he has a not-so-tiny problem with *coughs* “li’l Quill” *coughs*

Ego’s son is small, shrill, and shrieking, likely infected with an untold number of strange and fatal diseases that tend to evolve and accumulate on isolated backwater planets like Terra.

He’s also a biter, according to his assigned abductor, Tullk.

Which is why Yondu put Arjax in charge of decontaminating and defleaing the child. The man is already missing three fingers and most of his hearing anyway.

 _Be careful,_ he had ordered the hapless Ravager. _I want the cargo undamaged._

Yondu had thought he had been explicit in his instructions, so when he sees Peter Quill for the very first time and realizes what had been done to the boy, he nearly rips off Arjax’s whole arm.

Wet and shivering, the naked child hunches down in the corner of the decontamination cell, curled in around the site of amputation, shielding the delicate proto-limb behind cupped palms.

“What the fuck did I just tell ya?” he rages at his subordinate while stomping up to the child, who shifts to shrink his body, aiming to melt into the general scenery. Ignoring the boy’s indignant squawking and futile struggles, Yondu roughly peels away his hands to examine the injury. Lucky for Arjax, it was a clean cut, and Peter Quill’s third leg is already regenerating.

Taking advantage of Yondu’s momentary relief, Quill kicks him directly on the chin. Yondu reflexively backhands him, causing the boy to wail ever louder. Rubbing his jaw to soothe the ache, he backs away and stands, still facing the child, wary of any further retaliation. “We’re goin’a have ta git some pants made. His other legs are ‘bout the same length, so we’ll just assume the third will grow to fit.”

Scratching his head, Arjax shifts from one foot to the other, uncertain how to broach the rather-delicate subject and correct one not-so-tiny misunderstanding. “Um… Cap’n. I’m pretty sure that’s his dick.”

“No, it…” Yondu tilts his head, evaluating the boy’s reaction, the way he’s arched over, positioning his limbs to try to hide the suspected third leg from view instead of protecting more vital spots, like his head and neck. “Shit, yer right,” his voice is low in wonder. “That’s… Well, shit.”

“…You think it’s full size?”

“What?” Looking over his shoulder to regard the other man, Yondu’s expression is deadly, his mouth drawn into a frown while the furrow on his brow deepens. “I ain’t speculatin’ on the kid’s dick.” _And neither are you_ is the implication. “I better not hear the other men tellin’ tales ‘bout Quill’s… assets, if ya know what’s good fer ya,” he warns him, punctuating the threat with a short whistle.

Quill gasps as Arjax stares down the red Yaka arrow, radiating heat inches from his eye.

He gulps. “Aye, Cap’n.”

“Good,” Yondu whistles his arrow back to the holster at his side. Grabbing the towel from his subordinate’s slack arms, he tosses it over the boy’s form. Quill rearranges it to drape over his shoulders, still cautious of his blue abductor.

Yondu grimly stares down the boy but addresses Arjax: “Now git. I’ll take over from here.”

 

* * *

 

Yondu has no illusions about the quality of his men. They’re an unscrupulous, lascivious bunch who he wouldn’t trust with the welfare of any child, much less one sporting a freakishly-large anomaly prone to attract the attention of the more amoral, sexually-adventurous members of his crew. Sure, the revelation of the kid’s generously-sized member is an unforeseen complication in his ‘Protect Quill’ agenda, but Yondu is nothing if not adaptive.

“Here Quill, this is where yer goin’a sleep,” Yondu had said the first night, after he had rolled a cot into the corner of his personal quarters and dropped a bundle of sheets and furs atop it for warmth and comfort. It’s a mighty fine bed, better than most of the surfaces upon which his men nodded off.

Peter wrinkles his nose at the rancid aura wafting up from the makeshift nest. “It’s smelly.”

Yondu thins his eyes at the ungrateful brat. “Well, best git used to it, boy, ‘cause from now on, yer one o’ us. I even got chu yer own bed an’ everythin’.” He tosses him a pillow. It hits Quill square in the face with a soft thud, pushing him backwards onto his ass.

Peter hugs the lumpy pillow, holding it to his chest like a shield as it sags over at the middle. “I’d like to go home now, Mr. Yondu, sir,” he says from the floor, his voice quivering and threatening tears.

The pathetic plea only serves to irritate his abductor, who appraises the weak child before him with a hardened glare. “Nonsense; the Eclector’s yer home,” he says flatly, in a tone daring him to disagree.

Peter doesn’t take the hint. “But… Grandpa is expecting me, especially after…” his lower lip begins to wibble.

Yondu firmly latches onto the scruff of his neck, forcing his face up and squeezing it incrementally in warning. “Don’t chu dare start up on that again. I will have no cryin’ on my ship, ya hear? You don’t want my boys to think you’s easy pickin’s,” he murmurs darkly, “or did I make a mistake savin’ yer ass? Should I have let ‘em eat chu, huh?”

That only serves to upset Peter, who begins to cry despite the warning, his body shaking fearfully at the thought.

“I said quiet, Quill,” he orders again, shaking him roughly.

“I’m trying! I’m trying,” Peter protests, his voice hysterical and wracked with hiccups.

Yondu can see that, so he pushes him into the nest, then returns to his own bed. Grumbing, he strips down to his underclothes before lying on his back to settle in for the night. “You got potential, Quill, but if ya prove more trouble’an yer worth, then Terran’s back on the menu, ya hear?”

Peeking out from under the blankets, Peter watches him with wide watery eyes, afraid to let his guard down, as if that would have made a difference. Had Yondu really wanted to harm him, he’d have already done so.

“Now, go the fuck to sleep.”

 

* * *

 

Keeping Peter’s secret under wraps is more challenging than Yondu had originally anticipated, especially since the Ravager lifestyle is not conducive to privacy. The men strip down in front of each other, shower together, and use the communal piss trough in the bogs. Modesty is an abstract concept most Ravagers only knew about _in theory_ as something corporations used to sell larger homes and more clothing to ostensibly respectable folks. Why anyone would need whole rooms dedicated to a single shitter is anyone’s guess, but that is beside the point.

Protecting Quill requires drastic measures.

“Alright, kid. Here’s the deal: You ain’t allowed to shower with the men, an’ if ya need ta go, you hafta use my personal latrine. I don’t give a shit if yer on the whole other side o’ the Eclector, you hold it an’ use mine,” Yondu tells him the next morning, “I won’t hear no arguments ‘bout this.”

“So… what you’re saying is that I can shower and use the bathroom alone, and I only have to share it with one other grody adult?” Quill clarifies, his tone incredulous.

Yondu crosses his arms. “Now, I know ya’ll be missin’ out on important male bondin’ rituals with–”

“Done,” he quickly agrees before Yondu changes his mind, holding out his small hand for a shake to seal the deal.

That had been easier than expected, but really, the hardest part of this situation is figuring out when to lift these necessary restrictions. What Yondu needs is a baseline understanding of Terran aging, of exactly how long he would need to protect the boy from sexual exploitation before he is old enough to make his own decisions on such matters.

“Alright Pete, now ya see that guy o’er there? The fat one with the burnt-off face an’ frizzled hair what look like he got tased in the face?” the resident cabin boy, Kraglin Obfonteri, whispers conspiratorily to the child a few days later, indicating a rotund Ravager. “That one’s Taserface.”

Quill had giggled at that. “I can see why they call him that.”

“They call ‘im that ‘cause he picked the name. _On purpose_.”

That inspires more snickering between the boys.

“Yeah, I know. Ain’t too bright, but he can sure pack a whollop,” Kraglin advises, “So steer clear o’ that one.”

Really, assigning the kid to Kraglin had been one of Yondu’s better ideas when it came to managing Quill. It helped that on the surface, Xandarians and Terrans are quite similar in appearance. It made the boy more comfortable, less squirrelly. But that also came with its own set of problems.

“Say Kraglin, you know how to fly one of those ships in hangar bay?” Quill asks, once Kraglin had finished pointing out which Ravagers to avoid.

“Sure do.”

“So… what’s stopping you from leaving?”

Kraglin’s eyes turn hard and his posture rigid. “What do ya mean: Leavin’? Tha’s mutiny-talk, Quill.”

“I’m not saying I’d leave if I could… which I wouldn’t,” The boy awkwardly backpedals, having realized his mistake in trusting the youth.

“Good, because ya wouldn’t git far,” Yondu interrupts sternly, having approached the duo from behind. Kraglin immediately straightens up, beating his chest twice in respect to their captain.

Disappointingly, Quill doesn’t offer him the same deference. “I was only asking what’s so good about the Eclector,” he half-lies. “On account of me being here forever and ever and all. I just want an overview of the perks of living here from a fellow kid.”

“I ain’t no kid,” Kraglin objects, cuffing Quill on the back of the head for the borderline disrespect in his tone.

“Ow!” He rubs the sore spot, pouting at the unfairness of it all.

“Yer dismissed, Obfonteri,” Yondu says, but he’s focused on Quill.

Kraglin hesitates, sneaking a glance at the boy beside him, opening his mouth to speak.

“I said git,” Yondu orders yet again, throwing a warning glance in his direction that has the youth quickly exiting. When Kraglin looks over his shoulder to find Yondu’s steely glare, he hastens his pace, reluctantly leaving behind an unlucky Quill to face Yondu’s wrath alone.

Yondu waits for the cabin boy’s footfalls to fade into the background hum of the Eclector before addressing his disobedient ward. “You thinkin’ of runnin’?” His tone is low, deadly.

“No, Mr. Yondu, sir,” Peter says, defeated, as he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit and averts his gaze, shuffling his feet all the while.

Yondu knows the boy is lying and considers pushing the issue but thinks better of it. It had been less than a week since they had ~~abducted~~ picked him up, stealing him away from all he knew and loved. Yondu is not completely unreasonable; An adjustment period is to be expected under the circumstances… he figures two weeks should do it before he really needs to crack down on Quill’s more mutinous ramblings and behaviors.

Until then, he had certain questions that needed to be answered.

“Hey Quill, how old do Terrans got’a be ‘fore you lot are considered adults? What age can ya do shit like drinkin’ an’ fuckin’ an’ all that?” he abruptly changes the subject.

“Huh?” Quill scratches an ear and shrugs. “I don’t know… older, I guess. What’s fucking?”

Yondu is not prepared for that conversation, and neither is Peter, apparently, if he has to ask in the first place. “Never you mind that. How old are ya now?”

“I was going to be eight at the end of the year, but…” he looks down again, “When will I get to go home?”

Yondu ignores the follow-up question to ask his own. “An’ yer Mama, how old was she?”

Peter’s eyes start to well up with tears, but he makes a good effort not to allow them to fall. He had learned in the intervening days that such vulnerabilities garnered no sympathy and were liable to earn him a swat on the ear.

“We had a party for her before she… and she was 27,” he sniffles despite himself, his voice cracking in ways Yondu had learned not to press, lest he be forced to deal with an uncontrollably weepy Terran.

“So… what, that means she was like 18 or 19 when she was fixin’ to have you?” he barrels through. “Stars, you Terrans breed early,” he mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes.  

But at least that meant he only has to shield the kid from the advances of other beings for ten years. Ten years. He can do this.

 

* * *

 

In truth, things are relatively simple the first five or six years. Peter keeps his head down and his dick in his pants, hidden within the baggy confines of the standard-issue Ravager jumpsuit. Yondu makes it known that certain behaviors, specifically sexual advances and the like, will not be tolerated towards minors on crew, both Quill and that cabin boy, Kraglin. He figures no one can claim favoritism if it’s a blanket ban.

Then, puberty rears its ugly head, bringing with it the curse of unwanted, unpredictable, impossible-to-hide erections.

It had started innocuously enough just after sleep shift.

Yondu had been in a foul mood, and the fact that Quill had failed to show up that morning was the last straw in a string of inconveniences and minor setbacks. Truly, it was the boy’s own fault. Ever since he had assigned Peter and Kraglin to different shifts, the kid had been showing up to his post later and later. Yondu had barged into crew quarters to rouse him, planning to drag him out by his ear. This is all forgotten in the wake of one horrifying observation: Peter’s dick had grown exponentially larger in the night.

“Quill, the fuck happened to you?” Yondu had queried the boy, his anger dissolving into quiet disbelief and heightened trepidation. “Did you hit that on something?” he clarifies. Maybe it is swelling due to injury? He prays to anything that is listening that the change is not permanent. Quill couldn’t possibly hide _that_ going forward.

“I… I don’t know. It’s been happening sometimes. Does it happen to you?” Quill asks, his voice insecure and worried, as he stares down at the tent in his pants.

Captain Yondu Udonta is not one for reassurance. “Fuck no, son!” _Wait a minute-_ “You say this happened before. So… it ain’t permanent, right?”

“No, it will go down… eventually,” Peter explains, hugging his knees to hide the erection. “Am I a freak?” he asks, his voice going small.

“No, not exactly.” Yondu tells him, but he is blunt in his assessment of the situation. “Galactic genital variation bein’ what it is, there ain’t no such thing as a freak, but I never seen one like your’s.” Most males of various species kept their genitalia spooled inside their bodies until sex became an imminent possibility. Very few left it dangling at all times, susceptible to injury and damage, and those that did usually didn’t droop quite as low as the Terran nor extend quite so far.

“Yer prob’ly normal fer a Terran.” _Or a Celestial_ … though he doesn’t quite remember the Planet Ego having a large singular protuberance extending far into his atmosphere.

Yondu is relieved when Peter’s prediction proves true and his erection subsides.

Unfortunately, as the saying goes: You can’t keep a good man down.

Really, the impetus had been nothing in particular. One minute, Quill is reviewing star charts with Vorker, and the next, li’l Quill is rising to the occasion.

“The fuck is that?” Vorker had commented as Peter blushed and hunched over his crotch, trying to (poorly) conceal his cursed abnormality. “Yer knife handle slip out’a the inner pocket?”

“Nothing. It’s just… something that happens every once in a while. No big deal,” he tries to play it off, insisting, “It’s a Terran thing.”

“A Terran thing? That ain’t…” Realization dawns on the young man. “It can’t be…”

 

* * *

 

Call it a sixth sense, but Yondu can feel it in his bones: That damn kid is going to be the death of him. He had never wanted children, had thought he couldn’t ever have any, what with his sewn-up pouch – though whether the former was a result of the latter is anyone’s guess – and yet, here he stood: raising another man’s brat. Worse still, he had the sneaking suspicion he actually gave a shit about the boy, too.

Yondu tries to deny it – it’s only obligation that binds him to Quill, he swears – but even with Quill out of sight, he finds his thoughts drifting to him… specifically the fact that it had been twenty minutes, and the boy is far too quiet on the intra-comm channel that linked them.

That never bode well.

So, when Yondu ~~seeks him out~~ goes for a stroll to stretch his legs, he thinks he hears the signature whistly-crack of Quill’s voice coming from a storage closet often used for canoodling among the men, a cowl scarf closed in the crack of the door to signal its occupancy and ward off similarly amorous Ravagers.

Yondu immediately presses his palm to the access panel, his face murderous and jaw so tight, it aches. What he stumbles upon is a scene so nightmarish, it nearly blinds him with rage. Quill stands in front of Vorker, his jumpsuit unzipped and his dick on display.

He’s whistling before he can fully process the consequences, before Vorker can fully turn around. The arrow clips the man’s right eye, searing the entire orbital area blistering hot, until a full quarter of his face is bubbled bright red and shiny, pustular with second degree burns. Vorker screams, reflexively covering the extensive wound with his hands. As Peter stands frozen, his dick in hand, the high-pitched wail summons witnesses, who rush over, crowding behind Yondu to catch a glimpse of the source of the commotion and “li’l Quill.”

Yondu steps across the threshold of the storage facility, roughly manhandling Vorker to his feet to throw him out into the corridor and against the nearest Ravager. Shielding the boy from further exposure, he stands between Quill and the door, addressing the men: “Maybe I weren’t clear all ‘em years ago, so lemme try again: You take a gander at the kid, an’ I take yer eye. Lay a hand on ‘im, an’ I take yer hand. Yer dick goes _anywhere_ near ‘im, an’… well, you git the point,” Yondu’s voice is no less threatening for being relatively quiet. The men avert their eyes at the overt warning. “Now, git that man out’a my sight, an’ Quill,” he calls over his shoulder. “Suit up.”

Peter wants to argue, but even he can sense the gravity of the situation. Instead, he fumbles with the fasteners, pulling his clothes to rights with trembling hands. Hearing the sharp hiss of a closing zipper, Yondu turns to collect Quill and leads him out, pushing him forward with a firm hand on the base of his neck.

Peter tries to ignore the whispered commentary as they part the small crowd.

“Did chu see…” one of them begins.

“You heard Cap’n; I didn’t see shit,” another answers.

“Is that… I mean, is that even attractive? At a certain size, wouldn’t it just…”

“Said like a virgin,” a third chimes in, ill-advised interest coloring his tone. Yondu’s brow puckers, his mouth downturned into a deep frown, as he turns a menacing look at the source who subsequently cowers at the implicit threat.

Yondu is silent for a while after they turn a corner, until they’ve long exited earshot of the men. “You want to tell me what that was about?” The hand at his neck slips down to squeeze the boy’s shoulder.

Quill’s gaze doesn’t leave his feet. “Not really, no.”

There’s a beat, then: “I could make ‘im disappear if ya want, son.”

“No!” Quill meets his mentor’s critical eye. “No… It’s just... It was nothing.” He shrugs off Yondu’s touch. “Nothing to kill anyone over anyway.”

Yondu’s voice is unnecessarily stern. “Men have died for less.”

“Don’t kill anyone on my account.”

“Who said anything about chu?” Yondu corrects Quill’s assertion. “Vorker disobeyed a direct order.”

It’s subtle, the way the boy’s shoulders sag and his step slows. “Of course that’s what’s important.”

“Damn right,” Yondu hears himself confirming.

Quill doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing, the only sounds between them the hollow rumbling of boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Kinkmeme in full: Of all the humanoid species in the galaxy, Terrans are notable for one thing: the absurdly large size of their genitals. This becomes known somehow, and fetishized. Cue Peter being leered at/kidnapped/asked innapropriate questions/whatever.


	2. There's Something About Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter grows up and discovers he is quite popular among a certain subset of women.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this crack headcanon that Peter actually has terrible taste in women. Yeah sure, they’re all smoking hot, but he likes them dangerous and a little fucked up. The reason he’s so taken with Gamora is partly because he lives with her and has spent more time with her but also partly because although she is his “type,” she is also the most stable, kindest woman he’s been attracted to in a while. He recognizes that although she could kill him, she’s unlikely to try, and he can’t lose that.

When Peter hunkers down with Kraglin later that night, he’s unusually quiet.

Kraglin is relieved. The crew had been abuzz with rumors, and the sordid details of the event in question had grown more outrageous with each retelling.

 _Vorker had held Quill down and tried to mount his monster cock,_ Brahl had said.

 _No,_ Narblick had disagreed. _Quill was sellin’ dick, turnin’ tricks in Closet 4Z of Corridor 7 in Sector B, and Cap’n caught him with his latest John._

 _Ain’t what happened. Vorker tried to harvest Quill’s party piece and graft it onto his own pelvis,_ Gef had asserted, rather improbably.

Though Kraglin doubted the veracity of anything churned out of the rumor mill, there seemed to be a disturbing theme. At the very least, two things are abundantly clear: (1) Something had happened between Vorker and Pete – something that cost the former his eye – and (2) Li’l Petey is swinging major dick. Neither are things Kraglin wants to discuss with the kid.

“Kraglin…” Peter begins, whispering in the dark after lights out.

_Oh hell._

Kraglin considers feigning sleep, but against his better judgment…

“…Yeah?”

“You heard about what happened?”

“I heard somethin’ happened, but I don’t think I got the right story,” he admits, squinting his eyes to make out Peter’s form next to him.

“Well… You’re Xandarian, right?” Peter hesitates to ask. At Kraglin’s hum in the affirmative, he continues, “Do Xandarians… on average, how big are Xandarian… you know…” he struggles to form the words.

“You want to know how big my dick is?” Kraglin’s tone is flat. “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout that shit with you, Pete. Cap’n will have my tongue.”

“Yondu doesn’t give a shit about me specifically. He just can’t let insubordination slide.”

Kraglin scoffs. “You blind or just stupid?”

“C’mon Kraglin… please?” Peter pleads. “I just gotta know if it’s really that different, and I swear I won’t tell anybody we talked about it.”

Kraglin considers the risk, judging it to be minimal. The kid is many things, but he is no snitch. “Well, I ain’t takin’ out no measurin’ stick, but mine ain’t as big as yer’s from what I hear. The way the men go on, yer’s is a right behemoth. Biggest they ever did see – dwarfs their own, they say, which… usually a man don’t admit when he’s talkin’ about another feller’s junk ‘less there’s some truth to it.”

Peter sounds despondent at the news. “You… you think it will weird out girls?” he asks before voicing his true concern. “Am I going to die a virgin?”

Kraglin pats Peter on the shoulder. “Yer prob’ly alright. Some women will try anythin’ at least once, ‘specially the pros,” he tries to reassure him.

That had been an understatement.

By the time Peter is eighteen and Yondu retires the Nanny Protocol, he finds his unusually-large penis to be a boon to his sex life, repelling some but also appealing to a certain subset of dangerous, more-adventurous women.

Peter sidles into an available seat at the bar next to an attractive Rajak woman. “Hey babe, you’re so hot, even my zipper is falling for you,” he says. Planting an elbow on the counter and resting his chin atop curled fingers, he leans in towards her.

The woman gives him an appraising once-over and upon finding him lacking, turns back to face the bar. “Not interested, buddy.”

Despite the scars criss-crossing most of her exposed skin, she’s gorgeous with high cheekbones, large black eyes, and a svelte frame. Her face leans towards severe, accentuated by a particularly mean-looking scar cut from the corner of her mouth halfway to her ear, and he can tell she knows how to move by the way she holds her Ikasi dagger like it’s an extension of her arm, but none of that deters Peter. He always likes them a little damaged, in more ways than one, and this woman fits the bill quite nicely. He’s already half-hard from imagining himself pinned beneath her lithe body, strong fingers pressing bruises into his flesh as he flirts with the fine line between terror and pleasure.

But when Peter shifts closer to her, she palms that very same dagger and stares pointedly at his crotch. “I would advise you to step away. Even if I wasn’t so very clearly armed, those pants are too tight for you to draw your weapon in time to parry my own.”

“This isn’t my weapon, sweetheart. Well… not in the traditional sense anyway,” Peter says suggestively, subtly spreading his legs in such a way to draw her attention.

“Is that…” her eyes flick up to his face in mild surprise.

He smiles. “Yep.”

“A goiter? You should probably get that checked out.”

“What? No!” Peter protests, his confident veneer cracking. “It’s… Stars! Well, it’s just big, but it’s all natural and not a sign of disease.”

She stares a bit at that, her gaze betraying slight interest.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Peter says, voice returning to a smooth register. He can see her weighing the insufferableness of his company against the novelty of the experience. “Want to take it for a spin?”

And she does, curiosity winning out.

“So where did you get this one?” Peter asks, tapping on a bi-lobed scar near Wiloe’s neck. “It looks like a heart, which in my culture is a very romantic symbol–”

She rolls her eyes then pushes him down onto the bed of a pay-by-the-hour room behind the tavern. “Shut up, Qwol.”

“It’s Quill, Peter Quill.”

“Whatever. Be quiet,” she commands as she straddles him. “You’re ruining this for me.”

Predictably, Peter can’t manage to keep mum until Wiloe silences him herself with a makeshift sock gag strapped in by his own leather belt. She whispers dark threats into his ear all the while that disturbingly fail to impede his erection. He knows it’s fucked up, but he’s never been one for introspection, instead opting for the short-term pleasure of his wrists bound tight by rope, the heady rush of intimate fear quickening his breath, and his cock sliding in and out of the tight wet heat of the femme fatale above him.

Later, when he finally cums then comes to his senses, Peter resolves to sneak out before dawn, concerned his one-time lover may make good on her post-coital threat to remove his tongue completely so she can better enjoy him next time. Unfortunately, he is unable to slip out undetected, suffering a fork wound to the chest before he crashes out of the ground-floor window to beat a desperate escape from Wiloe’s ire.

It’s Kraglin that helps him tweeze out bits of glass from his arms and face once he returns to the Eclector.

“Really, Pete? This is the third time in six months,” he complains as another shard clinks into a the rusted side basin. “You got’a death wish I don’t know about?”

“You should have seen her. She was smoking hot and–”

“And ain’t no one hot enough fer this shit,” Kraglin interrupts him, dispensing sage advice.

Peter quips, “At least my homocidal lays are _actually_ attractive,” then yelps as Kraglin digs the tweezers in a bit harder than necessary. “Easy there,” he hisses.

Kraglin ignores him. “You goin’a tell Cap’n about this one?”

“Hell no! And you’re not going to, either,” Peter declares vehemently. The first time he had come to Yondu after a lay turned murderous, the man had berated him for his hormonal stupidity then spent three days tracking down Spireen before realizing Peter likely recalled the wrong name. “That’s why I come to you and not Doc. You can actually keep your mouth shut.”

There’s another pinch of pain followed by a hollow clink, then: “You know I don’t like keepin’ secrets from Cap’n.”

“Yeah, but you will.”

Kraglin sighs. “I know yer dick’s bigger’n yer brain these days, but you should really consider usin’ yer head every once in a while. You ain’t always goin’a be so lucky.”

Finishing up, he roots around within the first aid kit and produces a tube of antibacterial gel which he tosses to Peter.

Peter catches the projectile. “I’ll consider it.”

 

* * *

 

Despite Kraglin’s pep talk, it is not the last time Peter employs evasive maneuvers after the deed, due to his perilous taste in women combined with a general fickleness getting him into more than one scrap with the wrong bed partner.

A couple even get him into legal trouble.

“I don’t know if I have another round in me, Your Grace,” Peter groans, achy and winded, as he lies next to the Gramosian Duchess. His sweaty pale body sticks to her blue-black velvety skin, providing a stark contrast in both hue and texture.

Her answer had been silky smooth, like the fruity Pomulin creams they had partaken of not too long before. “Come on, Star-Prince. I’m sure you can manage.”

“It’s Star-Lord,” Peter corrects her. “But if you insist.” He rolls back to hover over her, and with a giggle, she encircles her legs around his waist, as they prepare for round three.

He has barely breeched her when a posse of four royal guards burst through the door, spilling into the room.

Peter flips over, covering himself at the waist with a discarded Tupa-silk sheet as the Duchess screams and hugs a pillow close to conceal her torso from view. While one man passes the Duchess a robe with his eyes turned upwards to give her some modicum of privacy, two men roughly manhandle Peter, forcibly removing him from the bed as he tries to hold the sheet up to hide his nudity, nearly dislocating his arm in the process.

“We are placing you under arrest,” their leader informs him.

“For what?” Peter had forgotten all about the tiara he had neglected to steal, too preoccupied chasing his orgasm between the Duchess’s thighs to concern himself with his actual job. “Whatever was stolen, I had nothing to do with it. I’ve been with…” _Damn it; what was her name again?_ “Miura?” he tries.

“It’s Marlia.”

“Right. I’ve been with Marlia all night,” he says confidently, turning to his one-time lover. “She’ll vouch for me. Won’t you, baby?”

Marlia’s eyes are wide as she purses her lips and sweeps a flattened hand under her jawline. _Shut up,_ she tries to pantomime to him, but it’s much too late.

“So you admit your guilt to our gravest sexual crime: Seduction of a member of the royal family.”

_Oh shit._

“…But she came onto me!” Peter tries to explain, struggling in their grip and losing hold of the sheet, which ripples delicately to the floor, exposing li’l Quill to all in attendance. There are gasps then a moment of silence, which is promptly broken by Peter.

“At least let me put on some damn pants!”

The head guard stares at his dick, grimacing at its titanic size. “…I’ll allow it.”

 

* * *

 

The Gramosian courts prove surprisingly efficient. Within ten minutes, Peter is tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death by a single judge, but the government of Gramos is not completely totalitarian, his captors would insist. He can always appeal. In fact, his execution won’t even be carried out until the following week, allowing time for his overworked court-appointed lawyer to go through the motions of confirming his capital sentence by exhausting all appeals and last-ditch pleas for clemency.

Their judicial system is highly effective, the laws evenly enforced, and most importantly, fair.

Peter wonders how they can state all that with a straight face.

Presently, locked in a cell with nothing else to occupy his time or mind, Peter considers that maybe – just maybe – he has an underlying problem. Perhaps Yondu had a point. If he just paid for sex like a normal person, like the rest of the Ravagers, he could avoid such issues. However, the humiliation of getting rejected by a bonafide professional for having a weird dick always stings. At least when a woman he meets outside the red-light district does it, he can tell himself it’s not like it’s her job.

As he’s pondering his predicament, he hears a familiar whistle and sizzle of Yondu’s Yaka arrow barreling down the hall, boring a hole through the access panel of his cell before taking a dramatic U-turn three inches from Peter’s face and zipping back down the corridor from whence it came.

_Fuck. Yondu’s here._

Briefly, Peter considers just staying in his cell. Execution might be preferable compared to what’s waiting for him in the prison’s surveillance room.

“Git yer ass out here, boy!” Yondu’s voice booms through the PA system.

Peter sighs, his shoulders drooping, as he heeds the command.

Though Yondu had sprung him from lockup before his sentence could be carried out utilizing his stellar negotiation tactics (AKA his Yaka arrow), that particular incident had earned him three months of scrub duty and a 30,000 credit rescue fee courtesy of the ornery captain as well as landed Peter on the intergalactic sex offender registry. So, from then on, he keeps his conquests to Countesses or below.

“Missed a spot,” Yondu says vindictively as he tracks his muddy boots across the floor Peter had just finished cleaning with the smallest scrub brush his mentor could drum up from the Eclector’s janitorial supplies.

Peter growls, screwing his face into a look bordering on mutinous as he tosses the brush back into the murky water of his scrub bucket. His fingers are pruny, grimy, and red from the exertion of the past several hours.

“Nuh uh, no backtalkin’ yer savior, Quill,” Yondu’s voice is infuriatingly even, as if savoring the contrast of his own detached demeanor with his ward’s helpless anger.

“I didn’t say shit,” Peter spits out.

“Yer face was sayin’ plenty.” Yondu crosses his arms. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice ‘bout where ya stick yer dick. Yer cap’n can’t always be swoopin’ in an’ savin’ yer sorry ass.”

“No one asked you to. So next time, do us both a favor, and let me figure it out myself,” Peter fishes the brush from the bucket, sloshing water onto the mud to scrub it away once again. “Or let me die,” he murmurs.

Yondu’s eyes narrow. He knocks over the bucket, spilling dirty water across the floor, causing it to pool at the hard-to-reach edges.

“What the fuck, man!” Peter backs up onto his haunches.

“It was yer own damn fault. You left it in my way,” Yondu’s tone is low, dangerous. “Now clean it up.”

Peter grumbles but does as he’s told.

 

* * *

 

For all his insecurities surrounding his aberrant dick growing up and the trouble it got him into since then, ultimately, Peter enjoys his life as a stud, perhaps a bit too much if the scars from spurned lovers demonstrated anything. As is said, variety is the spice of life, and Peter intends to sample as many women as possible before one of them inevitably cripples him in a jealous rage.

And then he meets Gamora.

She’s leaning against the Broker’s store front, staring at him while sensually nibbling at a mirberry leaf.

“You have the bearing of a man of honor,” she had said, flattering him to lessen his guard.

Really, she needn’t have expended the effort. Peter is already slipping into his well-trodden role of rackish outlaw with a heart of gold that proved so popular with the ladies.

“Well, you know, I wouldn’t say that,” he begins with faux humility, playfully tossing the orb into the air and catching it. He watches her approach out of the corner of his eye, wondering just how good those strong thighs would feel gripped around his waist. “People say it about me, all the time, but it’s not something I would ever say about myself.”

However, instead of falling into his arms, Gamora grabs the Orb, kicks him square in the stomach (thank the stars it hadn’t been any lower), and runs off.

And so had unfolded the beginnings of a challenging seduction that somehow morphed into a beautiful love story when neither party was paying attention.

Yondu had been the first to recognize the signs.

“Then you know we must get it back!” Gamora pleads. “He’s going to use it to wipe out Xandar. We have to warn them. Billions of people will perish.”

Without so much as addressing her concerns, Yondu turns to his foolish boy. “Is that what she’s been filling your head with, boy? Sentiment?” He slaps Peter upside the head to the laughter of his crew before grasping the sides of his face to drive his point home. “Eating away your brain like maggots!”

He backs away in disbelief. How many times had he bailed Peter out of a dangerous situation caused by the kid’s blind pursuit of pussy? Granted, the green woman accompanying him this time is a little more bleedin’-heart altruistic than the others had been, but since when did heroics pay? Peter’s constant failure to learn his lesson is starting to get ridiculous. Yondu is realistic about the future; he knows he doesn’t have decades left, and his boy had yet to figure out how to get laid without putting his life on the line.

“That’s it.” He had tried reasoning, chores, beatings… even a stupidity tax, but nothing seemed to get through to Peter. There is only one tactic left: death threats.

Yondu whistles his Yaka arrow, pointing it at Peter’s throat.

“No!” Gamora cries out.

“Sorry, boy,” he says, his tone already weary of this old song-and-dance. “But a cap’n's got’a teach his men what happens to those what cross him.” _And teach his boy not to think with his dick._

“Cap’n’s got’a teach stuff!” Kraglin repeats, riling up the crowd who grunt in agreement.

Yondu purses his lips, waiting for Peter to interrupt.

As if on cue, Peter states, almost nonchalantly, “If you kill me now, you are saying goodbye to the biggest score you have ever seen.”

Yondu smiles.

_That's his boy._

 

* * *

 

In the end, Peter managed to obtain both the Orb and his freedom, giving the former to Nova and choosing to spend the latter with the Guardians, specifically Gamora, to see where that tantalizing dynamic might lead.

Truthfully, Peter had never intended to fall in love with Gamora, but a combination of near-death experiences, close living quarters, and late-night conversations that failed to turn sexual to his continual disappointment had developed into an unspoken thing, strengthening over time until she was all he could think about.

True, he could just be upfront and show her what he was offering, but it had always been a 50/50 gamble whether any given person would be intrigued or horrified by his body, and if a target wasn’t into his particular _charms_ , Peter would just move on to the next. The reaction of any specific woman had never really mattered before, but with Gamora… her rejection would crush him. He couldn’t risk failure using his normal shock-and-awe tactics.

No.

If he wanted Gamora (and he certainly does), he will have to romance her with words and actions over an extended span of time, to seduce her without the immediate aid of his massive dick in case she proved apprehensive about the compatibility of his anatomy with her’s.

He needs to play the long game, so to speak…

Gamora is checking their fuel tanks, calculating a path that will maximize efficiency and accommodate stops through nearby way stations to fill up, when Peter interrupts her.

“Hey Gamora, I know you’re busy today, but can you add me to your to-do list?”

She runs her fingers over the pommel of the sword at her hip in response, the look she gives him positively withering.

Peter is so fucked.

It takes him longer than he would like to admit to tease out the source of his problem and develop a solution.

“Hey so… I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he tells her later over some coffee on a shared night shift, having decided that Gamora might appreciate his honesty. “I really like you, and I think you’d like me too if you gave me a shot,” he takes a sip. “So, what do you say?”

Gamora looks him directly in the eye over the rim of her mug before delicately placing it down on the table between them. “No,” she replies, but he notes she doesn’t reach for her sword this time.

So, being an optimist and probable masochist, Peter hears: _Not right now._

He can work with that.


	3. Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter’s progress with Gamora is slow but steady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to keep this to an M-rating, so it’s not quite as explicit as it could be. Peter is average for a human male (and part of the hilarity for the situation for me is that he’s out there with like a completely average dick, but because he’s in space where his size is not the norm, he radiates biggest-dick energy). Also, despite what porn says, sex with a “monster cock” is not particularly fun for the average partner and comes with its own challenges, which I tried to reflect somewhat more realistically here.

“Dance with me, Gamora,” Peter says, swaying his hips to some Xandarian beat on a satellite at the edge of Nova space, as he tries to gently pull her onto the main floor of a crowded club.

She doesn’t budge. “Is this really necessary?”

Smiling, he leans in close as if to whisper sweet nothings into her ear. “The target is located clear across the room,” he murmurs instead. “Now, we can either draw our weapons, disrupt this little party, and push our way through a panicked crowd, in which case there’s a 82% chance the guy escapes…” he pauses for dramatic effect, “or you can dance with me.”

He pulls away. “Your decision.”

Gamora knows which one is the right choice, the smart choice; it doesn’t mean she has to like it.

She begrudgingly grabs his hand, stepping out and pulling him in close. “You don’t tell the others. Not one word.”

“Promise,” Peter says as they are pressed together by surrounding patrons. She’s too stiff, uncertain, and Peter briefly considers whether Gamora has ever had the opportunity to dance before now. “Just relax,” he tells her, as he slips a hand around her waist. “Follow my lead.”

There’s limited space, so Peter starts her off with a simple step. “Right side step,” he whispers, stepping right, but she steps to his left, ramming into his leg to land hard on his foot. He grimaces, sucking in a pained breath. “Your other right.”

“Your right is my left,” she argues back.

“Okay, fine. Let’s start over,” he resets them. “Now, from your position: left side step. Right side step together. Right apart. Left together. Left apart. Another left,” he counts off the steps to her as they slowly make their way over the dance floor two steps across, one step back. “There, now you got it,” he says once she falls into the rhythm.

Left-left-right-left-left-right

Peter tries to concentrate on the mission, but it’s difficult considering her proximity. She feels good, her skin warm and soft under his hands and her body so close to his own. They move in synchrony, her hips following his as they shuffle across the dance floor. He wonders if this is what it would be like, being with her.

“Peter…” she breathes.

“Yes, Gamora,” he replies expectantly.

“Our target is on the move, we have to go. Now,” she says, pulling away to push through the remaining crowd and break out the other end.

Peter takes a moment to readjust his pants before following after her, and when they finally chase down their man, he is a bit rougher than strictly necessary in apprehending him.

“You couldn’t have stayed put a couple more minutes,” he mutters to the fugitive’s utter confusion.

And so continues his courtship with Gamora: Always two steps forward, one step back.

“Why hello there, Peter… It’s been a long time,” an attractive Krylorian woman sidles up to him a month later when the Guardians go to a casino to meet a potential client. She smiles coyly at him, playfully drawing figure eights in his nearest bicep.

She looks sort of familiar, but for the life of him, Peter can’t quite place the face or remember her name. “Hey… you,” He’s pretty sure she’s an old lay and not a cop. “Yeah, it’s been a while.”

But by the look on Gamora’s face, perhaps the latter possibility would have been the better option.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends here?” the other woman suggests brightly, zeroing in on Gamora in particular.

_Fuck._

“So, um… this is my team, Drax, Rocket, Groot, and... Gamora,” Peter says, introducing each in turn, his trepidation growing. “And guys, this is… um… Sindee?” he tries. He is not successful.

And by the look on Byria(?) and Gamora’s faces, he’s not winning points with either of them.

Predictably, Drax can’t read the room. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Sindee. And how do you know Quill here?”

Rocket snickers, but covers Groot’s eyes. Groot is still a baby, and babies probably shouldn’t witness the impending carnage. If Quill is lucky, he will only need a couple prosthetics after the women team up to tear him apart. Rocket is sorely disappointed when the other woman simply slaps Quill, leaving him to be pointedly ignored by Gamora.

“It didn’t mean anything,” Peter tries to explain.

“It’s not any of my business,” Gamora states icily, “but if it were… do you honestly think that makes it better?”

Back on the ship, he continues to try to win his way back into her good graces. “Sorry if that made you uncomfortable.”

“Peter… it’s fine, and I’m not mad at you. Your past is your past.” She’s calmer than at the casino, the edge in her tone softening, but Peter doesn’t think it’s his imagination that her demeanor is more aloof than it had been previously.

“See, you say that, but I get the feeling it does matter to you, so…”

Gamora simply rolls her eyes and walks away.

Though Rocket may laugh at his failure and Drax thinks he’s just wasting his time, Peter believes he is not imagining their growing intimacy. Gamora cares for him as he does her, but every time he tries to address their unspoken thing, she always retreats from it, denying it even exists. _She needs time,_ Peter tells himself, even as he grows increasingly impatient with their gruelingly-slow process. _She’ll come around._

It all comes to a breaking point on Ego. It had been Gamora’s idea. She had pestered him into reconnecting with his roots, with his biological father, and now that he finally feels whole, she tells him it’s all fake.

“You know what? This is not Cheers after all! This is whatever the show is where one person is willing to open themselves up to a new possibility, and the other person is a jerk who doesn’t trust anybody!” he finally snaps at her. It just isn’t fair; he has finally found a place where he belongs, and Gamora is trying to take it away from him, because she is jealous he has something other than what they had built, the thing she still refused to so much as acknowledge, much less name.

“It’s a show that doesn’t exist. That’s why it would get zero ratings!”

“I don’t know what Cheers is!” she yells back, completely missing the point.

So Peter clarifies, “I finally found my family. Don’t you understand that?”

She’s quiet at that, then: “I thought you already had.”

When she exits, Peter is left with the distinct feeling that perhaps he is the one missing the point.

 

* * *

 

Gamora’s eyes are soft, twinkling in the glow of bursting Ravager colors. “It’s just… some unspoken thing,” she finally admits.

Peter looks at her, still hurt, still sad over Yon – his dad’s – death, but he drapes an arm across her shoulder, drawing her in close when Gamora returns the gesture with a comforting embrace around his middle as they watch the fireworks alight red over the stream of ashes.

Later that night, when Gamora follows Peter to his assigned room on the Third Quadrant, no one says anything about it.

Behind closed doors, Gamora tilts up her chin and pulls Peter down, pressing soft lips to his. But when he fails to return her ardor, she stops, leaning back to gauge his non-reaction.

Peter massages the back of his neck. “You know I’ve… wanted this for a long time, but can… can we just put a pin in it for now?” He can’t quite look at her.

She nods, letting him go.

Peter lies down on the old furs atop the bedspread, breathing in the scent of earthy leathers and sour body odor. It reminds him of his childhood, of Yondu, and he thinks about how long it had been since they last spoke, since before the Orb. Though he wills himself not to cry, his shoulders are shaking under the effort of holding it in, breaking only when he feels Gamora’s warm arms envelop him from behind.

“I’m sorry; I’m sorry,” he chants softly, face hidden into the crook of his arm and burrowed deep into the furs, uncertain of what he’s apologizing for or to whom. Yondu had never tolerated blubbering, not on his ship.

_It’s not his ship anymore,_ a small voice whispers to him, but the thought only makes him feel guilty, more ashamed of his lapse into weakness. Yondu had been proud of him, had said it himself at the end of all things…

If only Yondu could see him now.

Gamora is gently shushing him, rubbing his arm before holding him tighter, holding him together, as he falls apart. “It’s okay, Peter. You will be okay.”

Peter is not okay, not that night nor for several days after. Kraglin is less so, and when he sticks around after the funeral, Peter initially feels grateful for the company of his pseudo-brother, the last survivor of Yondu’s Ravager faction and the only one who can truly appreciate the depths of their shared grief.

It’s not until after talking to Rocket that Peter finally understands that it’s not just familial loyalty binding Kraglin to Peter and the Guardians, but guilt.

Incensed, Peter stomps up to Kraglin with Rocket trailing quickly behind him. Kraglin turns around only to be met with a mean right hook.

“Quill!” Rocket exclaims, trying to pull him off the other man. While stronger than his size would suggest, the raccoon is much too short and compact to prevent a motivated Peter from lashing out.

“You betrayed him, you motherfucking asshole, you frutarking son of a syphilitic whore!” Peter rages, taking another wild swing at Kraglin, which he blocks. “How the fuck do you have the stones to be here at all!”

Kraglin is not stupid. He knows exactly what Peter is talking about – hadn’t stopped thinking about it since Yondu’s death – but he himself has some choice words for Yondu’s son. “I ain’t the only one, Quill!” he side-steps another punch to plant a finger directly on Peter’s chest. If not for Rocket hanging off the younger man and trying to strong-arm his wrist behind his back, Peter might have snapped it like the twig it resembled. “You ripped him off, then left him – left all of us – so that you can go gallivanting around the Galaxy with your new crew!”

“At least I didn’t start a mutiny!”

“You weren’t there, Quill. There was nothing he could’ve done different ‘cept die with the rest,” Rocket tries to intervene, still wrangling his friend.

Kraglin ignores the raccoon completely to address Peter’s outburst: “You might as well have!” His resultant laugh is broken, pained, as he takes a step back. “Why do ya think we was even in that position to begin with? Cap’n was goin’a let chu walk, after stealin’ a four billion credit score. You had’a know there’d be consequences, if not fer you than fer him. I tried to tell ‘im to at least pretend to go after ya, but no! He was always too busy coverin’ yer ass to watch his own back.”

“That was yer job!” Peter counters, still spitting mad but with an undercurrent of uncertainty tempering his tone.

“An’ you didn’t make it any easier!” Whether for emphasis or support, Kraglin grasps onto Peter’s lapels and breaks down.

For the first time, Peter notices how dark the circles under the other man’s eyes are, how his skin looks pale and mottled under the unkempt scruff of facial hair. He clearly hasn’t been sleeping well, or eating, or… really taking care of himself in any capacity. Even his signature mohawk is looking bedraggled with the shaved sides neglected. In his defense, Peter had thought Kraglin had been doing that last one on purpose and was stuck in an unfortunate awkward phase as his hair grew out during the rare instances when he had stopped to consider Kraglin’s emotional state at all, too wrapped up in his own grief to notice.

“I mean… Stars, Pete, I loved ‘im, but he always loved chu more,” he chokes out, the tremor in his voice enough to dumbfound Peter. “I made a mistake, Pete, one mistake, an’ I own that, will regret it the rest o’ my days, but…You think you had it hard? I was the one who was always loyal, the one he could always count on when shit got tough, so he never thought to try to keep me happy, never considered that I needed anythin’ at all really. Imagine stayin’ an’ always bein’ passed o’er fer the brat what don’t appreciate nothin’.”

“Kraglin…”

Slowly, Kraglin unlatches his fingers from Peter’s person. Wiping his face across the back of his hand, he straightens up to a slouch and shakes out an achy shoulder, allowing himself time to smooth out his demeanor as best he can. “Mayhap it’s time I move on, you know. Jus’ drop me off at Xandar or Knowhere or wherever. I can find my own way.”

“You don’t have to go,” Peter says, the fight having drained from him in the midst of Kraglin’s tirade. Like Yondu, he had never considered Kraglin’s feelings, had never thought he had an emotional stake in the situation one way or the other, too wrapped up in his own experience to concern himself with that of his brother’s.

“Yeah, just because Star-Munch here is an asshole, don’t mean you have to leave,” Rocket says, sliding off Quill’s back now that the confrontation has passed.

“I want to.”

Peter is remorseful. “I… I shouldn’t have said that, Kraglin.”

“Me too, Petey,” Kraglin sighs, “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

Having chased off his remaining family from his Ravager days, Peter noticeably wilts, eventually confiding in Gamora his mistake that night. So, after he falls asleep, she carefully disengages from his limbs and soundlessly exits to find Rocket fiddling with one of many small devices.

“You told Peter about the mutiny, and now Kraglin’s leaving,” she states evenly.

Rocket doesn’t even flinch at the (non)accusation. He sighs, placing his screwdriver to the side and turning to face Gamora. “Yeah… he wanted to know about Yondu’s last hours, so I told him. Didn’t think he’d go nuclear on the guy.”

Gamora crosses her arms. “We’re not letting Kraglin go.”

“What do you mean? ‘Let him go.’ He wants to leave; he gets to leave. We’re not locking him in the brig until he changes his mind.” Rocket has always been a come-and-go-as-you-please-I-don’t-give-two-fucks kind of guy. He would never even think to imprison a friend _without_ a sizeable bounty to sweeten the deal, and the money on Kraglin’s head is not nearly worth the ~~guilt~~ trouble. He had checked.

“I am not saying we should hold him against his will. I am simply suggesting we make him an offer he can’t refuse.” She opens a drawer of spare parts, rummaging through the contents within.

“Hey, that’s mine! Mitts off!” Rocket protests, trying to push it closed on her fingers.

Gamora persists, holding it open with her superior strength until she finds what she’s looking for. She pulls out a prosthetic fin. It’s the wrong shape and much too large, but it’s a start, containing all the internal mechanisms needed for the final product. She has confidence in Rocket’s ability to modify it into something more attractive to their target audience.

She muses, “If Kraglin were to get a cybernetic enhancement allowing him to use Yondu’s arrow, he would need to stay with people he trusts to monitor his compatibility with the implant and overall health, to reduce the risk of infection, rejection, and death. He will also need time to learn how to use the weapon without fear of theft or capture. But first, in order for this to work at all, we need a suitable fin.” Gamora holds it out to Rocket. “You think you’re up for the challenge?”

 

* * *

 

Ultimately, Kraglin accepts the upgraded fin as well as the Guardian’s invitation to stay while he convalesces and trains. Peter is thankful for the opportunity to patch things up with the man. He had already made a similar mistake with Yondu and would never forgive himself if he and Kraglin likewise parted on bad terms.

“I made some Syilvang Stew.” Peter stirs in another tin of grey mystery meat.

From the kitchen table, Drax pulls a face. Based on the ominous gurgling, he’s pretty certain that whatever is in Syilvang Stew is either still living or possibly undead and begging for the sweet kiss of death.

Kraglin steps up close, taking a whiff of the aroma emanating from the pot. “Tha’s my favorite.”

“Yeah, I know,” Peter says, adding a sprinkling of salt. Food had always been a method of unspoken apology between Ravagers. “You taught me how to make it.”

Kraglin smiles at that. “Did I teach you to go light on the seasoning?” He tips the bottom of the salt container Peter is holding, dumping more over the bubbling slop. He spoons out a taste, holding it up to Peter’s mouth. “Now try.”

“Not bad,” is Peter’s verdict. “Needs more of that weird basil-thyme herb though.”

“Syilvang Stew don’t need no fancy vegetables,” Kraglin insists.

Drax is scandalized by their abuse of culinary nomenclature. “Herbs are not vegetables.”

 

* * *

 

Slowly, Peter improves; his many appetites – gustatory, social, and sexual – return, and most heartwarming of all, Gamora is there. She has always been there, coaxing him back to life in the wake of Yondu’s death.

And Peter loves her for it.

Humming along to Otis Redding’s _That’s How Strong My Love Is_ broadcasting from the Zune, Peter draws close to her from behind, threading his hands between her arms and hips to meet loosely at her waist and burying his face in her hair. She places a hand over his joined ones, and he closes his eyes, swaying their hips to the music.

“I thought we could maybe… you know, continue, from before?” he murmurs into her hair.

She pats the hands at her waist then turns to capture his kiss, and when he parts his lips, she tentatively licks into his mouth. It’s an invitation, one he readily responds to, deepening their kiss and allowing his hands to roam from their neutral position at her middle. Her breasts are as soft as he expects, having been pressed flush against her in a tight spot during a job here and there, but to have the opportunity to explore them more fully… that’s new. Gamora moans softly, breaking them apart momentarily before kissing him with renewed vigor. Gamora undoes her belt and tugs at the hem of her shirt.

He pulls back in response, breathing heavy as he whispers in the space between their mouths, “Do you want…” he still can’t say it, can hardly believe this is actually happening, despite his usual bravado.

“Yes, Peter,” she returns, leading him the short distance to the foot of their bed.

She likes him – has liked him for a long time – he’s been sure of it for ages. Now, here they stood, on the brink of consummating their long-standing mutual attraction, but there is still one thing he should clue her in on.

“Before we start, I should warn you. I’m… way bigger than average, like ridiculously so,” Peter’s tone is self-deprecating but proud, reflecting his own ambivalent relationship with his member.

Gamora rolls her eyes at his antics. He really didn’t need to try to impress her anymore; she had already articulated what she wanted, had already made her intentions clear. “Oh, come on, Peter.”

“No seriously. Everyone says so.”

Gamora unbuckles his belt, unzipping his pants to slip her hand inside. “I’m sure you’re–” she stops, feeling the hard length and weight of him full in her palm before carefully pulling it out to check the terrible truth of her tactile exploration.

“See?”

“…There’s no way that is going to fit,” she says, apprehensively.

“It’ll fit.” He sounds much too confident.

“How?”

“Look, I know it’s a bit intimidating at first, but I promise I’ll go slow. I do this all the time.”

Gamora raises a brow at that, her mouth thinning into a hard line, broadcasting her annoyance.

“Not like that,” Peter rushes to assure her, palming her shoulder soothingly. “I mean… it has been a while, ever since – you know – before we’ve had our thing going on, and… Well, you know what I mean. You’ll…” he averts his gaze, “Stretch.”

Gamora looks dubious as she gives his erection an experimental stroke, nervously measuring the girth in her grip.

He shudders with pleasure. He wants to lie her down, press into her, feel her tight and wet and warm around him, rippling in spasms of mutual pleasure, but her anxiety gives him pause, making him feel more than a little disheartened. Though he has wanted this – wanted her – for months, the last thing he desires is for her to feel obligated to allow him intimate access to her body. He clasps a hand over her’s, removing it from his member so he can awkwardly tuck it back into his underwear as best he can. If he’s going to have this conversation, he’d rather not do it with his monstrous dick on display.

“You know, if you don’t want to, then that’s okay too. We don’t have to do anything, really.” He sighs. “Some really like it. Others… not so much. Stars know the first hooker Yondu hired for me took one look at my dick and gave the money back.”

“Oh please, Peter; the prostitute gave the money back?” Gamora fails to suppress the note of sarcasm in her tone at what she thinks is bragging disguised as humility.

Peter is surprisingly frank. “Well yeah, if you aren’t going to provide the service, then you don’t accept the fee. That’s common practice.”

He shrugs, scratching the nape of his neck nervously. “Look, I know it’s not for everyone. As much as some women have tried it simply for the challenge, just as many have declined, and she just didn’t want to deal with this freakish monster – her words –” he indicates his clothed erection, now shrinking down to half-mast at the memory. “Said the thirty seconds of sex I could manage for my first go would stretch her out for the next couple hours at least, and tried to haggle for double her rate,” Peter admits quietly, as he concentrates on clearing his underclothes out of the path of his zipper. “That is _not_ what an 18-year-old kid wants to hear, I tell you.”

Gamora grabs his wrist, halting his motion. “I didn’t say we couldn’t try.” Her voice is gentle, understanding.

She moves his hand to the side, away from redoing his pants. Peter lets her.

True to his word, Peter goes slow. He takes his time warming her up, kissing and fondling her until she melts into him, relaxing into his touch before he slips lubed fingers inside, preparing her for the stretch. She’s still much too tight, smaller than he would like her to be. Mentally, he runs through possible positions to reduce her discomfort. He’s limited, as always. There’s the old stand-by, missionary, of course. Side-by-side works, too, as it would prevent deep penetration, and then there’s–

Gamora pushes him on his back, flipping on top to loom over him.

–Woman-on-top.

Woman-on-top allows her to control how deep she takes him. Peter is uncertain whether it’s her regular go-to or if she’s intimately familiar with how to handle an absurdly-large cock from prior experience. The slight pinch of jealousy at the latter possibility feels hypocritical, even in Peter’s compromised state, so he doesn’t ask; he’d rather not know.

Plus, it’s hard to concentrate on any one thought when the woman of his dreams is sliding up and down over the top half of his dick. He lifts his upper body, pressing his lips against her’s once again, tangling his tongue with her own and resisting the urge to thrust up into the stretch and warm heat of her body. It’s their first time, and he doesn't want to hurt her by being overeager.

It takes her a while, incrementally stretching herself with short thrusts downwards, and she never quite takes the full length of him before she cums. That will require practice, but it’s okay…

Peter holds her in the aftermath, her back to his front, her head tucked under his chin while he lightly runs comforting circles in her stomach with one hand.

They have all the time in the world, because now that Peter has found his forever, he will never let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is one more short scene left which serves as a sort of epilogue after the events of Endgame. If you wish to remain unspoiled, you can just stop here. It doesn’t really have any bearing on the story, but is more of a final situational dick joke.


	4. Just Like Everybody Else (Epilogue – Endgame Spoilers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter solicits sex advice from the newest Guardian of the Galaxy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from GotG2 when Ego says, “You are a god. If you kill me, you’ll be just like everybody else.” Peter replies, “What’s so wrong with that?” It’s something that always stuck out to me as rather poignant… This epilogue definitely has a different tone, but perhaps a similar theme. Anyways, it takes place after Endgame. It doesn’t affect the rest of the story, so people that haven’t seen the movie yet can just skip it.
> 
> I’d like to point out that the average length of a human penis is roughly 5.2 inches (12.9 cm) erect and 3.5 inches (8.8 cm) when flaccid. Peter is about average, and unlike the Guardians, Thor has seen Midgardian porn, so… ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Thor had been on the Benatar for less than a month, and Peter is already plotting to jettison the man and all his baggage, both literal and metaphorical.

Sure, when he had first met the God of Thunder a short three weeks earlier (plus or minus five years), Thor had been absurdly handsome to a degree that might challenge the masculinity of a lesser man. Of course, Peter hadn’t been threatened (liar). He had been the far superior specimen, regardless of what Drax and Rocket had expressed at the time. However, in the intervening days – _years,_ Peter reminds himself – Thor had clearly unraveled in ways that even Rocket wasn’t enough of an asshole to exploit.

The worst is the rampant alcoholism, which necessitated the re-designation of the Benatar as an alcohol-free zone. Rocket had taken it upon himself to clear out all the booze in the communal kitchens as well as Peter’s personal stash on behalf of Thor’s recovery. _Hey, that’s mine!_ Peter had protested as he tried to reach for the bottle to save the last swallow. Rocket had shooed him off. _Thor can’t be trusted around the stuff,_ he had replied, pouring out the last drops into the liquid filtration system to be re-processed into potable water.

Peter understood, really he did. In his youth, there had been many a Ravager who would have benefited from the odd dry-out period now and again…

But Gamora had just died.

Sure, she had been promptly resurrected, but she wasn’t the same; that hadn’t been his Gamora on the battlefield. His Gamora is still dead, still gone, and… it’s complicated. The knot in his belly forming, Peter buries it – buries her – in his renewed search for alternate (past?) Gamora. He will find her, romance her again, and recover some semblance of what they had.

He has to try.

In the interim, however, Peter could really use a drink. Unfortunately, his usual coping mechanism conflicted with Thor’s recovery, and Rocket had prioritized Thor. It makes sense, if Peter really thinks about it. Rocket had had years to process their deaths and so hadn’t even considered that Peter is still grieving Gamora’s.

Presently, Peter stands under the showerhead in the communal showerblock, water flowing over him in torrents as he braces himself against the wall.

 _Gamora is still alive,_ he tells himself. There’s still a chance for her, for them, to be what they once were to each other. There’s still…

The water roars in his ears, drowning out his sobs.

Just then, the door behind him slides open, nearly silent, but the man that ambles across its threshold is anything but. Peter nearly jumps at the interruption, angling his head to face the source.

“My apologies for startling you,” Thor says, padding past him to use the opposite shower.

Peter steadies himself, evening out his breathing with well-practiced ease borne of growing up in a culture that punished such sentimentality. “Stars, Thor. Learn to knock, why don’t you?” He’s proud his voice manages to come across as flippant, utterly nonchalant.

Thor is less than impressed with his feat of emotional fortitude. “…Is everything okay? Your eyes are rather red.”

“Just got a little soap in them. No big deal,” Peter lies. He turns around fully, closing his eyes to tip his head back and rinse off as fast as possible so he can quickly retreat back to his quarters.

When Peter cuts the water and reaches for a towel, it strikes him that Thor hadn’t seen him naked before, yet he had offered no comment on Peter’s gargantuan member. Perhaps Asgardians are as well-endowed as Terrans? Peter sneaks a peak at the other man’s equipment.

Nope. He falls within the normal range of intergalactic bipeds.

“My eyes are up here,” Thor says flatly as he soaps up, working the shampoo into his long hair.

Peter sputters, “I wasn’t – that is to say, it’s not like… Well, I get a lot of comments on my dick, and you didn’t say anything,” he finishes lamely. He recalibrates his demeanor quickly – he’s Star-Lord after all; he’s swinging major dick and has nothing of which to be ashamed. “It's downright huge, and usually people comment on it when they first see it,” he says more confidently.

“I’ve seen bigger,” Thor states simply, facing away to turn on the showerhead.

“You don’t have to lie. I know it’s the biggest you’ve ever seen.”

“You forget I have been to Earth before. I have perused Banner’s collection of pornographic films on occasion,” he explains. “You’re average, maybe a bit on the small size based on what I’ve seen in Midgardian erotic cinema.”

“…What?”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about your relatively-small penis, Quill.”

Peter snorts at that, but Thor’s tone is long-suffering, as if he’s had this conversation before. “I was quite popular on your planet. What Midgardian men consistently fail to understand is that it’s not your size that matters, but how you use what you have to please your partner. Not just your penis, but the rest of your body as well. You’ll be fine.”

Peter is immediately defensive. How dare Thor posit that his dick is inadequate in any way? “I know how to please a woman. I’ve had many very _very_ satisfied sexual partners.”

Thor lathers up a soap cake, working it over the soft muscles of his arms and down over his beer belly. “Then you know of what I speak.”

Peter doesn’t, but he still leaves, heading towards his quarters to mull over Thor’s words. He’s not small – in fact, he concludes Thor must have been incredibly intimidated to come up with such a ridiculous fiction on the spot – but tantalizingly he had also mentioned other non-penile methods to get a partner off, and Gamora hadn’t been too thrilled with his enormous dick the first time around. Chances are her dimensional twin’s opinion will be similarly disinclined to give him a shot based on curiosity alone.

Perhaps this time, with a little advice, he can make their first time together better for her, and she’ll be more inclined to stay.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Peter steers the conversation towards sex, specifically Terran sex.

“This again?” Rocket harrumphs. Quill had always been uncommonly proud of his sexual prowess and what Rocket surmises must be a birth defect… maybe even a pituitary issue that only affected his dick. Irritably, he wonders if Quill’s body could only develop one of its heads and chose poorly.

“I would be interested to hear the answer,” Drax states, his attention drawn (as usual) to Thor. Though less obviously muscular than before, Thor had maintained his tremendous strength, thoroughly impressing the smitten Drax during training sessions.

Peter swears his friend is way too interested in dicks for him to have married a woman. Then again… space sexuality is more fluid as a general rule. Peter’s own attraction to limited possibilities is highly unusual, downright deviant in fact.

“Thor don’t want to talk about his Terran broad.” Rocket rolls his eyes. Quill obviously has another competitive bug up his ass, and thinks he can win one over the latest Guardian/Asgardian of the Galaxy. Rocket may not be sold on the new team name, but he liked how much it bothered Quill, so it stuck.

“No, no… it’s fine,” Thor replies, rubbing his palms together and cracking the knuckles. “Jane and I broke up. It was mutual, really. I had left to find the Infinity Stones for a number of years, and… well, to Midgardians, two and a half years is a long time to be gone. It wasn’t fair for either of us to expect the other to wait, so…”

“Uh huh… whatever you say, buddy.” Rocket pats him on the back.

This is getting sad. Peter just wants to add some new moves to his repertoire, not re-traumatize Thor. He needs to avoid mention of specific women and generalize the conversation. This calls for tact, requiring Peter to be delicate – almost surgical – in his approach. “But the sex must have been amazing. Terrans… we can get pretty wild.”

_Nailed it._

“Stars, Quill! Talk about a one-track mind,” Rocket barks out.

“It’s not his fault. Midgardians are just like that. How does the Earth saying go?” Thor strokes his beard in thought, “‘Men always think with their dicks’? It seems to be quite frustrating at times.”

“Hey! I don’t ‘think with my dick’ all the time, and if I did, it would come up with some damn good ideas.”

Drax ignores Peter’s outburst, seemingly pensive. “Interesting… so Quill’s obsession is actually biological?”

Thor tilts his head in thought. “Perhaps. They use sex to sell everything and anything on their planet, not just contraceptives and lubricants, but even toothpaste and transportation. It must be extremely effective based on how ubiquitous the practice is.”

Peter crosses his arms, twisting his face into a sour expression. Since when had Thor become the authority on all things Terran? Peter is actually _from_ Earth, had spent more years there than all of Thor’s recent visits combined.

Armed with this new information, Drax regards Peter. “That actually explains a lot.”

“Terrans are disgustingly insatiable,” Rocket adds, pulling a face. “It ain’t no wonder they haven’t made it past their moon.”

“Yes, you may very well be right,” Thor concedes. “In fact, it is my understanding that once a Midgardian woman has enjoyed sexual congress with a man of a darker complexion, she will never return to her original paramour. I thought perhaps it was because these men were more skilled on average, but Sam Wilson insinuated that this had to do with the greater size of their penises, though Banner assures me that that is a rumor with little basis in fact.” He shrugs. “I’ve learned that Midgardian males are quite taken with the relative size of their genitalia, the penis specifically. They remain neutral on the size of their testes.”

“That’s weird,” Rocket mutters. “Testicle size is the real marker of virility.”

“Midgardians are not rational beings, like you or I.”

 

* * *

 

Okay, so that particular conversation had been a bust. Drax and Rocket had provided little help, actively hindering Peter’s primary directive by diverting the conversation into unhelpful tangents. What he needed was to talk to Thor privately, when the man was alone and vulnerable to his inquiries.

“Quill… What are you doing in my chambers after hours?” Thor asks him later when Peter shows up at his door after the others had already turned in.

Peter lays on the charm. “Can’t a man hang out with his newest crewmember and buddy on a slow shift?”

“I was under the impression you considered our relationship to be more… adversarial than that. But if you are here to offer a proverbial olive branch, then who am I to stand in your way of becoming a better man?”

Peter’s left eye twitches. “Right, so now that we’re friends… all that stuff you were talking about earlier and in the shower. I was thinking, maybe… well… um…” This had been so much easier when he practiced it in his head on the way over, stopping by the kitchen to get a drink or two, which was entirely necessary and not a tactic designed to delay the inevitable.

Thor’s gaze drops to the twin bottles crossed together and dangling from Peter’s loose hold at his side. “That best be your famous Ravager moonshine. Such a small container of anything less will not get me nearly drunk enough to give one such as you practical lessons in the art of sexual intercourse.” he deadpans.

Peter snorts in response. “What are you talking about? I’m clearly awesome! But no… not like that. I was wondering if you could give me some… pointers, just in case I’m missing anything.” He holds out one of the bottles to Thor, label facing outward. It’s only seltzer water, of course. Peter might have ulterior motives to this little visit, but he’s no monster standing in the way of Thor’s recovery.

Thor accepts the nonalcoholic offering, cracking it open with a soft fizz and returning to his bed to settle at the foot. “Ah, so you desire my counsel on how to please women.”

“I please women just fine. I mean… you’ve seen my dick. I’ve gotten a ton of compliments over the years.”

From his flat stare, Thor appears unconvinced.

“Okay fine, damn it… just because I do well enough as is – and sex with me is an experience of a lifetime – doesn’t mean there isn’t room for improvement,” he rambles, “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. Women are clamoring to ride this beast. It’s not like I actually _need_ lessons to please a woman–”

“And that’s your problem right there. Most women need more than simple penetration to achieve orgasm,” Thor points out.

“…I knew that,” – _he didn’t_ – “but just so we’re on the same page… from one god of sex to another, what are some of the other things you do with women?” He taps the neck of his own bottle, concentrating on the beads of condensation collecting on the smooth surface and feigning disinterest. “Just to compare notes.”

_Smooth._

Thor seems to accept his explanation, or he doesn’t care enough about Peter’s reasons to challenge his statement. “Alright… well, first there are the basic erogenous zones most women find pleasurable that as a fellow ‘God of Sex’ you should already be well aware of.”

Peter knows this one. “Yeah, like the pussy and the breasts, right?”

“Those are two of many, yes.”

“There are more? I mean…” he averts his eyes, coughing into his fist to clear his throat. “Yes, of course there are more, like the…” he trails off expectantly.

“…Inner thighs,” Thor supplies.

“-Inner thighs,” Peter interrupts him.

“Neck.”

“-Neck.”

Thor pauses, waiting for Peter to carry on without him. When his companion fails to do so, he continues slowly, “Cloacal…”

“Cloacal…” Peter repeats.

Thor narrows his eyes. “Flank.”

“Flank.”

“Hah! I made that one up!” he declares triumphantly.

“Well, what a coincidence, that is totally a thing among the people of… Klyptomeria,” says the proven liar, adding: “It’s an uncontacted planet. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

Closing his eyes and massaging his temple with his fingertips, Thor lets out a frustrated sigh. “This would go a lot faster if you are just honest with me about what you don’t know.”

“I am being honest,” Peter insists. “I know a lot about where to touch a woman.”

“But the trick is knowing how to touch them.”

“Yes, and that’s… softly?” Peter is better than this, more confident. He knows it. But in the other man’s presence, with his superior knowledge, he is not so sure anymore.

Thor measures his next words. “This is about that Zehoberei woman, Gamora, is it?” he finally asks, much too observant for Peter’s taste.

“Why would you assume that?” Peter thinks he prefers the drunkard to this new sober version. Drunk Thor may have been prone to near-incoherent rambling and weeping and being much less functional overall…

Okay, maybe he didn’t like Drunk Thor either, but at least he wasn’t so quick on the uptake.

“Honesty, Quill,” Annoyingly-Sober Thor reminds him. “If you are asking specifically to woo a particular woman, I can be more exacting, tailoring my advice to her anatomy. For instance, did you know a Kymellian likes to be penetrated from behind, but the same move will cause excruciating pain to a Shi’ar who must only be stroked laterally across their genitalia?”

Well, that explained why he had never been able to seduce one of those angelic creatures. He always assumed they were too uptight to respond to his numerous attempts to pick them up.

“This is about Gamora,” he finally admits. He wants to be perfect for her, to spare her any undue pain or discomfort.

“I believe that is the first truth you’ve divulged tonight. Now, was that really so hard?”

“…Yes?”

Thor rolls his eyes. “I can tell you how to please Zehoberei women in general, but the most important thing is to engage her mind. Gamora is young, but she is not a maiden fresh from finishing school. She has developed her own preferences and desires specific to her experience, of which a more practiced, observant, thoughtful lover may elucidate only a small fraction based on response, but really the most expedient and effective method is to engage her in open and honest conversation,” he explains, “though I can see that that is clearly not your strong suite.”

Peter manages to hold his tongue at the (unfair) assessment, but it’s a near thing.

“Take a seat,” Thor pats the space on the bed next to him. “I would prefer you don’t loom over me.”

“I'm not looming,” Peter protests, but he does as he’s told all the same.

“We can start by talking about manual stimulation or perhaps oral pleasure.”

“The first one,” Peter says assertively. “I already know how to talk dirty. Women love it.”

Thor blinks, momentarily struck dumb by the incongruous combination of his new pupil’s lack of knowledge and sheer confidence.

“…You need far more help than I had initially feared.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put this in the comments on Chapter 3, but the concept underlying this epilogue is that though Peter has had his (more-than-fair) share of sexual partners, the vast majority of them were one-night stands primarily interested in his enormous schlong. Therefore, he’s very familiar with penetrative sex, but not so much with other types of sex, because his prior partners have really only been interested in the one thing from him. So, when he gets with Gamora, he’s not exactly the best lover, and unfortunately, Gamora herself had grown up more concerned with survival than learning her own body, so while not a virgin, she’s not exactly a wealth of knowledge either. So, while Peter doesn’t want to give Thor the satisfaction of being better at something, he wants sex tips more.


End file.
